


Always Remember Us This Way

by Decim



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Circle Mages, Circle of Magi, Comfort/Angst, Cullen Rutherford Has Issues, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Love, Lovers to Friends, Lyrium Withdrawal, Mild Sexual Content, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Original Character(s), POV Original Female Character, Past Relationship(s), Plot, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Suspense, Templars (Dragon Age), Thedas Needs Therapists
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29286372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decim/pseuds/Decim
Summary: Hasty footsteps echoed in the stone stairwell, hushing the murmurs of spells in the adjoining rooms. Curious faces gathered in the doorways, observing the cloaked stranger making her way to the top floor. Harding lowered her hood as she reached her destination, and entered a door on her left.First Enchanter Trevelyan looked up from her desk, grey eyes widening at the sight of the unexpected guest. “Lace...”“I found him,” the scout announced, “Val Chevin.”“Orlais?” The mage got up and closed the distance between them. “Why would he —”“He’s... on the streets,” Lace explained, “Begging for lyrium. He did not remember me, barely remembers himself. I’m sorry, Emma... the Cullen we knew is gone.” She watched her words land. Though Emma Trevelyan remained composed, Lace could see her heart breaking just that little bit more behind her misty irises. “I can go back,” she offered. “Give him a swift end. It’s the kinder thing to do.”Emma closed her eyes, silence reigning for a long moment as the mage prepared herself for what lay ahead. When she looked back up, any trace of sadness had gone.“No,” she said decidedly. “It doesn’t end this way.”
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Cullen Rutherford/Mage(s), Cullen Rutherford/Original Character(s), Cullen Rutherford/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 19





	1. Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Because Cullen is ~33 after DAI and I don’t buy that he would be beyond salvation if he hasn’t quit lyrium at that age on his first attempt, or that his friends/colleagues would just let him go off like that. Who’s with me?
> 
> The story will be a combination of post-DAI conversations and flashbacks, starting in DA2 and going all the way through. This first chapter may be a little dark, but it won't be all doom and gloom, I promise. Thanks to the lovely [Kemvee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemvee) for giving her input on this!
> 
> Enjoy, and hope to see you in the comments! <3

Much like the populace’s masks of pigment and gold, the splendour of an Orlesian city is only surface deep. Away from the main streets framed with glittering facades, the cracks in the veneer quickly cause it to crumble.

Val Chevin rose up from the dark, its spires dimly illuminated by the purple sky of an approaching dawn. The city’s position upon the shores of the Waking Sea made it a valuable asset, opening up trading routes to Nevarra and the Free Marches. Emma was not surprised to see this side of the city, with its colourful three-story warehouses and ornate bridges, to be well-maintained. For anyone entering Orlais from the water like she was, this was their first impression of the great empire. Though she’d been impressed by it once upon a time, excited even to gaze upon the beauty of the nation’s fabled architecture, now it left her heart unmoved.

The trading vessel, flying a Kirkwall banner, smoothly carved its way to the marble-plated port. Emma disembarked, setting foot upon the polished stone, and paid her transport an extra sovereign. The dock stretched out before her, smoothly transitioning into the main road where the floral decorated streetlights lured her towards the central plaza. She took several paces forward, then halted to pull Harding’s note from her belongings. It was far from the first time she’d read the message since the scout had written it down in her office, yet she checked it thoroughly once more nonetheless.

The scout’s instructions took her off the main road, defying the lanterns’ warming glow, and down the side alleys. The working class lived here — the butchers, the bakers, the candlestick makers. Soon, after the nobility had gone to rest but still well before sunrise, they would leave their beds and head for their shops, preparing for another day. Mostly they would trade amongst themselves, though the best of their wares would be transported to boutiques in the more affluent districts. Here, their work would be purchased for quadruple what they’d been able to sell it at, only because it was presented to society’s upper crust by a more palatable vendor. Emma pulled her cloak around her against the wind whistling through the winding street. It came from the Northwest, carrying the malodour of exposed sewers and festering wounds. She turned a corner and descended a flight of stairs, now truly leaving any prosperity behind as she entered Val Chevin’s alienage.

Her appearance here was as unprecedented as it was unwelcome. Hollow eyes observed her from the shadows, waiting for something that would identify her as anything but a passing abnormality. Emma watched them through the Veil, sensing their shifting presence as she kept her eyes on the road ahead. Though some months ago the slums’ population would have largely been Elven, she faintly noticed that was no longer the case. Like in most other places, they seemed to have disappeared around the time that Solas had last shown himself.

The atmosphere stirred, sending a sense of foreboding trickling down her spine. Metal glinted in the corner of her eye, a dagger being readied in the dark. She sighed to herself. Normally she’d spend some time here, trying to help. Beside rebuilding her Circle, she’d spent most of her time doing just that in Kirkwall, aiding Varric’s efforts of lifting the city’s weakest from poverty. Tonight, however, she could only help one. She lowered her hood in anticipation, releasing her silver hair from the folds of her cloak to cascade down her slender shoulders. The ghostly locks shone in the pale glow of the moon, shimmering as she released some of her mana into a soothing aura. Though she could defend herself, if forced to do so, she preferred not to raise her powers unless absolutely necessary. Fortunately, in most cases, the hint of magic was enough to deter any potential assault.

She was relieved when tonight proved to be such an occasion. Under the gentle threat of her preventative shield, her would-be assailants quickly slunk back into the shade of the overhanging buildings. Emma kept up the barrier, listening closely for any further sign of them as she quickened her pace. Another glance at Harding’s note directed her down another set of steps and underneath a series of bridges, until she happened upon a dirty stream. She turned north, away from the sea to where the channel carried the city’s dreck, and followed it until she reached her destination.

A tall, slender tower pierced the night sky like a javelin. Though not as imposing as the White Spire, it rose far above the surrounding buildings nonetheless. While its official entrance was several levels above her head, the structure began here, in the bowels of Orlesian society. Emma continued along the stream and bent low underneath a stone arch as it led her into the undercroft of Val Chevin’s Circle.

The water carved across the circular space, disappearing underneath a stone staircase leading up to a heavy door. The Gallows had a similar entrance, secret to anyone who had not lived there for a long time and locked at all times. The rest of the space was low, with a vaulted ceiling supported by thick, stone pillars. A few weak campfires had been lit, starkly illuminating the hunched figures gathered around them. Emma wove her way between the groups, her chest constricting at the sight of once proud warriors diminished to shades of their former selves. They spent their nights here, waiting for the slight chance that the door be opened by a pitying insider. Come daylight, they’d shuffle towards the streets, motivated only by a faltering sense of survival, and spread out along the boulevard to beg for coin.

Emma’s gaze drifted over the men and women, their eyes dull and unseeing as they faintly registered her presence. One of them got to his feet, wobbling upon weakened limbs. He was tall and, at some point, had to have been quite imposing. Now he stood crooked, a strange bulge protruding from between his shoulders, and held himself at slightly below eye level with Emma as he stopped her.

“Lyrium?”

A single word, both deliverance and demise. Emma shook her head, watching the sliver of hope in the man’s watery eyes flicker out like a candle in the wind. He nodded vaguely, but didn’t move. Instead, he stayed where he stood, softly swaying back and forth. Without any impulse pushing him forward, he simply had no other place to be.

Emma walked around him instead, wrestling down the phantom mass forming in her lungs. She went from group to group, quickly assessing the sunken faces of thin skin stretched across brittle bones. One after another they looked to her, wanting, emptier still when she did not deliver. The more of them she saw, the less sure she became that she’d even know who he was when she found him. The whole way here she’d prepared herself for the possibility that he may not recognise her... she had not considered the opposite might be the case as well.

Just as she began to wonder whether he’d gone since Harding tracked him, her eye fell on a lone shape on the edge of the room. Obscured by the dark, folded in on itself, and wrapped in a threadbare cloak, the person had not responded to her presence at all. Emma whispered in hushed breath, conjuring a small ball of light that morphed into a butterfly. It fluttered its lace wings, tracing a gleaming path towards the figure for her to follow.

The man squinted at the light approaching him, instinctively inching further backwards against the wall. He was barefoot, wearing only the soiled remnants of a pair of brown trousers and a white linen shirt. Bloodshot eyes stared at her with amber irises, skeletal features framing the fear within them. Dirty, matted hair reached to his shoulders and faded into a knotted beard. It was longer than she’d ever seen it, and far from any colour that she recognised. Unmistakable, however, was the faint, white scar claiming the familiar place on his upper lip.

Emma knelt down, resisting the urge to embrace him. He observed her, jagged breath high in his lungs. When she did not move against him, he relaxed a little. He parted his cracked lips, tongue moving behind them to moisten his dry mouth. “Please,” he pleaded with a weak voice, “I need lyrium.”

She forced herself to exhale. The thought that he spent his days repeating that line, not only to mages or templars that might use the Circle’s hidden exit, but to Orlesian nobility parading the streets above... No matter what his intention had been in leaving behind his friends and family, it couldn’t have been from a wish to end up in such a position. Emma had appreciated Lace’s candour in relaying his condition and, now that she was here, could fully understand the scout’s desire to offer the ex-Commander a swift escape. Much as she wondered whether she was being selfish in withholding it, she couldn’t go through with it... at least not yet.

“Cullen?”

His eyes moved between hers, straining as if trying to identify a person in the far distance. If his name was familiar to him, however, he did not show it. A moment later he raised his hands towards his head and pressed his knuckles into his temples, harder and harder as he squeezed his eyes shut. “No... no, no, no —”

“Hey now,” she shushed him. She took his hands in her own and pulled them away, alarmed with how little effort it cost her to do so. He didn’t flinch as she continued to hold them, feeling his bony fingers laying limply in her own. “Cullen, do you know who I am?”

He raised his head slightly, eyeing her weakly from beneath his protruding brow. “Lyrium... please.”

Emma sighed and let go of his hands. She pulled her bag into her lap and opened it, searching through its contents until her fingers touched upon a smooth, cylindrical shape. She hesitated. It wasn’t a solution, that much she knew, but it was the best she’d managed so far. First, she had to get him out of here and somewhere safe. For the moment, nothing else mattered. Whatever came after, simply had to wait.

The vial shone bright blue as she pulled it from her bag. The glow reflected in Cullen’s sunken eyes, pupils dilating with anticipation. His hand reached for it like a child’s attracted to something shiny, but she closed her fingers around it before he could take it. He stared at her hand, then at her. “I’ll do anything.”

She forced herself not to imagine the people taking advantage of such a statement, and those who might have already done so. “You don’t have to do anything,” she said softly, failing to keep the emotion from her voice.

He waited eagerly, quivering like a hound expecting a meal. He scrambled to take the vial when she offered it, fingers with nails chewed bloody struggling to remove the cork, and downed the mixture at once. It wasn’t pure lyrium, nowhere near it. It was a mixture of her own creation, consisting of processed crystal, deep mushroom extract and other herbs, not wholly unlike a mana potion. With the state he was in, however, it would probably taste the same.

He swallowed hard, then licked the edge of the vial clean. It fell from his grasp as he leaned back, letting his head drop against the wall. He clutched his shirt with both hands, chest rising underneath, and moaned in ecstasy as the potion spread through his system. Emma allowed it a moment to settle, averting her gaze until his laboured breathing slowly subsided. When she looked back, she found him resting, eyes closed and a faint smile on his lips.

“How do you feel?”

His smile widened, stained teeth showing from behind his disheveled facial hair. “Wonderful.” He giggled, then laughed, raspy and ragged with a pitch that wasn’t his. The sound gave her chills sharp as daggers that sank deep into her stomach. Emma watched him, concern mounting that she really was too late. She swallowed against the lump in her throat, biting her bottom lip until she tasted blood while Cullen’s laughter turned to a maniacal cackle.

Then, just as quickly as it had started, it stopped.

His face, twisted with distorted joy, froze in place. His eyes were open and far away, staring into the depths of his own fate. A final, lone chuckle escaped from his strangled throat as the first tear rolled down his hollow cheek. One followed another, and another, until they flowed unstoppably and he buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook with the weight of his emotions fighting to the fore, far too powerful for his weakened state to keep them suppressed as he’d done for so long.

“Terrible,” he whimpered, “I failed, I failed. I can’t —”

Emma inched closer, reaching for him. “You didn’t, love,” she whispered, stroking the sullied strands of hair from his face. “You did not. I’m the one who failed you.”

“Is there nothing else?”

“There is, love... At least better than here.”

He looked up at her through his tears. Though his entire being quivered beneath her touch, he no longer recoiled. “I don’t want to be here.”

“Alright,” Emma sighed, quietly thanking the Maker, “Then let me take you away from here... Let me take you home.”

Though she felt certain he still had no idea who he was following and where she would take him, the word  _ home _ seemed to spark some familiarity. He nodded and, his immediate need partly satisfied, allowed himself to be guided into a standing position. His hand lay in hers as she led him out and away, tensing a little whenever she moved too fast. He was quiet for most of the time, though muttering on occasion. Names mostly, his siblings’ and people from the Inquisition. There was little true recognition in them, only the lingering thought that they should not be allowed to see him. She wondered if he even knew why.

She found an inn near the docks that would take them in, though she paid several times the amount the owner likely would have charged had it been her alone. At least the man agreed to send for some new clothes and had them delivered to their room. Emma prepared a hot bath, warming the water with a flick of her finger. Though she’d wondered if magic would upset him, he didn’t even seem to notice. In his slightly more stable state, Cullen was oddly docile, sitting on the edge of the bed until she approached him. He allowed her to take off the rags and settle him in the tub, where he sighed deeply at the warmth flooding over him.

Emma sat beside him, gently washing the dirt off his ashen skin and uncovering the marks beneath. His lower arms were scratched up in a way she imagined was self-inflicted, and a few new scars had appeared in other places. Though they had healed, it was clear they had not been treated as well as his older wounds had been. She forced herself to focus on the task at hand, keeping images at bay of how he’d spent these past months.

Once he was clean, she moved to cut his hair. He let his head hang back a little, closing his eyes as her nails untangled the dirty nest. Due to the knots, she was forced to cut it shorter than he’d gotten used to. Like this, it was closer to how it had been when he first joined their Circle. Perhaps, once it grew back, it would regain some of its bounce. Emma smiled to herself as she carefully cut his beard as well, trimming it first, then shaving it off altogether. She unearthed a sharp jawline and chin, more defined than they’d ever been. As a knock on the door signaled the arrival of their meal, she prayed that he would eat it without objection.

Her worry was unfounded. The moment he had food in front of him, Cullen dug in. The thirst for lyrium took any other drive away, made the templars numb to their more fundamental needs. Emma didn’t want to give him more of it, not a single drop, but until she could get his body into a stronger shape, she wasn’t sure how to avoid it. She didn’t eat much herself. Instead, she watched what was left of the man she’d loved clean his plate, and hers after that.

Cullen sat back once the food was gone and sighed deeply. He looked to his hands, assessed his new clothes and, finally, felt his face. He then looked to her, his eyes still bloodshot, but more lucid than they’d been so far.

“How do you feel?” she asked again.

He shifted a little in his seat. “Better. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You... do you know me?”

Emma nodded. “Yes, Cullen. I like to think I know you rather well.”

“Oh...” He sat in silence as he processed that information. “I’m sorry,” he said eventually, “I don’t know who you are.”

She took a deep breath, and forced herself to smile. “That’s alright, love. Don’t worry about it.”

Love. He was looking down, elbows on his knees and fingers pressed together, and mouthed the word in silence, as if practising it for the first time. He glanced back up at her, frowning deeply as he searched the recesses of his muddled mind. A few times he seemed ready to speak, only to think the better of it.

“I left,” he managed eventually, “That’s what I remember. I had to leave.”

Emma reached out her hand. He looked at it with mild confusion, then took it. Perhaps it was habit, perhaps it was because he simply enjoyed another person’s touch. Whatever the reason, he held her hand with what strength he still possessed and, for a moment, it was like he’d never left at all.

“I’m sorry that seemed like the only option,” she said quietly. “I should have done more to prevent that.”

“We...” His other hand travelled the familiar path to the back of his neck. “Were we... friends?”

She breathed a quiet laugh through her nose. “Yes, we were friends. Then we were more, and less, and friends again. In the end, I’m not sure either of us knew exactly what we were.”

“I see...”

His eyes flit back and forth, burning into hers as they searched for the past eluding him. Emma felt her heart quicken, a familiar feeling blossoming in her chest. She’d feared, forgiven, respected, rejected, loathed, and loved him. No matter how much life drove them apart or their own actions kept them there, something, eventually, had always drawn them back. She hadn’t always known what it was. Now, however, sitting in the perfumed room of an Orlesian inn, she knew it exactly.

“I can tell you about us,” she said quietly. “If you want... I could help you remember.”

Cullen’s forehead tensed. Somewhere, deep down, perhaps his instincts warned him not to remember, to continue running from the things he’d failed to confront before. This evening, however, looking into the vaguely familiar eyes of the silver-haired woman before him, the voices in his mind lost the battle. He shifted a little towards her and, for the first time that night, smiled a half-smile that tugged on his scar.

“Yes... I’d like that.”


	2. When We Met

The morning gong rang through the Gallows courtyard, cutting the night short for the start of another day. Emma opened her eyes to the half-dark of her cell. Positioned in the shade of the black cliffs, this side of the prison would not see daylight until midday. The grey sky, visible through three narrow window slits, was thick with rain of an upcoming storm.

She swung her legs off the cot, shivering as her bare feet touched the floor. The cold of the night had seeped into the floor and walls, penetrating deep into the fortress’s bones. Though it was perfectly capable of providing comfort when properly lit, this part did not receive such treatment. Emma quickly slid off her nightgown and changed into one of the three identical sets of robes hanging in her wardrobe. They were a dull, dark grey with red accents, and about a size too large, masking her modest curves. By lack of a mirror, she quickly combed through her hair by feel and pulled it back in an unassuming bun. Short from shaving her head, there was little else she could do to lessen the attention its unusual colour tended to draw. Considering that would turn some heads in its own way, she didn’t see the point in trying.

Just as she’d finished preparing and took her position in front of the door, the sound of a heavy lock sliding open echoed through the hall. The metallic ringing of plating chafing across leathers followed soon after, steadily coming closer. Emma listened to the rhythm of the footsteps, the punctuation in the landings, the spring in the uptake. Some senior templars had a weariness to them, slowing their cadence or causing it to stutter. Others were oozing with a righteousness that pounded on the pavement. Today’s steps had not yet lost the bounce of youth, the hope and expectations of meaning or purpose. Emma sighed quietly to herself at the naivety of new recruits, straightening out her face just in time for the aspiring templar to appear behind the barred window.

The door opened with a groan, and she waited for the guard to step back before she stepped out. All along the corridor, others were doing the same, filing into a queue of identical robes. Emma glanced at the recruit who had opened her cell. Though Paxley was not much older than most others coming out of training — generally, in their late teens — his downturned moustache made it seem like he’d been languishing in the ranks for years. Though he was always of a paranoid disposition, he appeared particularly skittish this morning. His hand tensed on the hilt of his sword, and he glanced around him with shifty eyes. Twitchy templars were possibly some of the worst, right alongside the cruel ones. Though Emma detested the men who abused their power more than anything else, at least they were predictable. Nervous knights could act in unexpected ways, with the slightest glance or gesture setting off a disproportionate response. Emma quickly focused on the apprentice in front of her instead, and kept her eyes trained on the back of his head as they were shepherded from the dormitory and in the direction of the chapel.

Morning service lasted for an hour, one which Emma spent further practising her trained gaze of indifference. The sermon focused on the dangers of magic, on the great sin that had brought the Blight upon the world, on the temptation that lurked within them all. It often did. Emma let the words wash over her, their weight further flattening the well-trodden path of guilt across her heart. It had hurt more when she was younger. Now, the reminder of what she was and why she deserved to be here, was simply part of her morning routine.

Once the sermon had finished, the templars came forward to receive their lyrium. The mages shifted in the front pews, uneasy in such close proximity to the less processed version of the substance. No matter how often the ritual repeated, it was something none of them could ever get used to. Emma forced her lips shut and drew shallow breaths through her nose, suppressing the mild wave of nausea rising in her throat. One by one, the knights bowed before the Chantry mother, glowing faintly as the substance spread through their veins and steeled their hearts. There were undoubtedly many reasons that Meredith insisted on making the mages watch this display of power. Spoiling their appetite for breakfast was only one of them.

A final hymn concluded mass and they were corralled back into the corridors. As they walked towards the mess hall, Emma ruminated on the coming day. If a storm was coming, she’d need to spend some time securing the garden and bring the more delicate plants into the conservatory. The seedlings and grafts were taking well, but would require a delicate hand for some time to come. With her afternoon already booked, showing her work to the young apprentices as part of their orientation classes, that only left her with the morning hours. She silently prayed for no unexpected situations to arise, when a bump against her arm startled her from her reveries.

“The very best of mornings to you, my lady.” A boy with jet black hair and bright blue eyes had appeared beside her, bending down a bit to talk with her in a low voice. “You are miles away today, aren’t you?”

“Good morning, Dale,” Emma replied quietly. Though she kept looking forward, she couldn’t help but smile a little. “I’m sorry, were you trying to get my attention?”

“Oh, I’ve only been trying that for years,” he sighed dramatically. “Why didn’t you wait?”

Dale’s cell was several doors down from hers. Though normally she’d slow her pace until he’d managed to catch up, today had not been a day to do so. “Haven’t you noticed?” She briefly jerked her head in the direction of Paxley, who was paying less attention to his wards and more to the other recruit he was walking alongside with. Both were talking in hushed voices. “They’re nervous. As in, more than usual.”

“Are they now?” Dale murmured, straightening himself up to survey the other guards. “I wonder what’s going on.”

“With some luck, we won’t find out.”

“Oh, come on, aren’t you intrigued? What else could you be so deeply in thought about this early in the morning?” His eyes widened with delight. “It couldn’t be me, could it?” 

“Hush,” Emma warned him, for his voice had gotten increasingly loud. “I was just planning ahead for the day. Some of us have obligations, you know?”

“Unkind,” he chided her, playfully poking her shoulder, “I’ll have you know Orsino asked me to supervise spell training this week.”

“Did he indeed? Did he also tell you not to show off while you do?”

“He might’ve suggested something of the sort,” Dale smirked, “I guess I’ll just have to hope for an apprentice setting the bookshelves on fire instead.”

Emma huffed a chuckle through her nose. Combat casting had never been her strong suit — the incident some years ago that he was referring to was evidence enough of that. She’d abandoned all effort of improving it as soon as she had mastered the bare minimum. Instead, she had dedicated herself to the more subtle and understated areas of magic.

“I’m sure it won’t be long for someone to fulfil that wish,” she mused. “Accidentally or otherwise.”

They entered the mess hall. It was a dark, cavernous room devoid of windows, with entrances on all four sides framed by torches. Long tables and benches were set up in neat rows, while simple wooden chandeliers hung from the ceiling above them, casting the people below in a dim glow. The Tranquil were already there, seated at a table in the far corner. The other tables began to fill up quickly as well, and Dale nodded towards some open seats on the far right. They weaved their way through the milling crowd, sitting down as the Chantry sisters began to serve out breakfast. Here, with more space to move around and the templars falling back to their guard positions along the walls, the mages quickly felt more at ease. Murmured whispers rose to chatter as friends exchanged pleasantries — discussing their training, research, or the latest gossip — and even gave rise to a careful spell of laughter here and there.

“Ancestors, spare me from more ramblings of that old bat!”

An elf with bushy red hair plopped herself down on the seat across from them. She was followed by a human girl, who wore her hair in a long, dark braid that lay across her shoulder, and an elven boy. He was smaller than his friend, with wispy hair and wide eyes. Emma greeted him, which he returned with a fleeting smile.

“Didn’t you like it, Trick?” Dale asked the red-haired elf. “I thought it was some of Mother Abigail’s finest work. The suspense, the drama, the tinge of condescension in every word! High-class bards would not dare follow that performance.”

Trick made a disgusted noise, then looked equally disgusted at the plate of gruel being put before her.

“Patricia is just a little out of sorts,” the other girl added, slowly swirling a spoon through her breakfast. “She got turned down for Advanced Primal Studies. I don’t know why you’re so upset about it, I assure you it only  _ sounds _ sensual.” She leaned forward a little, briefly reaching across the table to touch the back of Dale’s hand. “Hi, Dale.”

“Good morning, Aryl,” Dale grinned.

Trick glowered at Aryl, as the latter turned back towards her with a satisfied smile. The elf had been found on the Kirkwall chantry steps as a baby, and raised by the sisters until her magic started to show. Once in the Circle, she’d discovered her Dalish heritage with the aid of other elves. Though her knowledge was only surface level, for she generally lacked the patience to study any topic in-depth, she had happily adopted the gods of her own race rather than the one forced upon her. Another act of resistance was her insistence that none use the name given to her by the Chantry, instead settling on the moniker she had chosen for herself.

“Do  _ not _ call me that!” she snapped. “And we don’t all choose our speciality based on which senior enchanters we want to bed.”

“A wasted opportunity then,” Aryl smiled coyly.

“Why didn’t you get in?” Emma asked the elf. “What happened?”

Trick sighed glumly. “Jamael thinks I should learn more control first,” she muttered, angrily poking at her porridge. “He says I’m ‘too eager’. Can you believe that?”

Emma had no problem believing it. Though she could understand Trick’s disappointment, Enchanter Jamael had undoubtedly made the decision for her own benefit. Hot-headed mages like the elf were often drawn to elemental spells.Trick was gifted in them too, but it wouldn’t do her any favours if her inability to curb her temper made her an object of scrutiny among the templars.

“See, it makes much more sense to focus that energy somewhere else,” Aryl teased and, addressing the quieter of the two elves, “Take my advice over hers when you choose your speciality, Nessun, you’ll thank me for it.”

Nessun murmured something unintelligible, but Aryl didn’t seem to notice. She started telling them some gossip she’d heard, while the nervous elf continued to eat his food. Unlike the rest of them, Nessun had not yet been called for his Harrowing. Kirkwall’s Circle was, among other things, known for its high percentage of mages who failed the test. It was only one of many reasons some enchanters decided not to pursue personal relationships, or at least not grow attached to the young apprentices until after they’d proven themselves. Although they’d never discussed it directly, Emma knew her group was steeling themselves for the morning that Nessun may not appear for breakfast, or that he’d show up across the room among the Tranquil instead. With how withdrawn the already shy elf had become over the past months, Emma thought that Nessun was as well.

“He’s very handsome,” Aryl was saying as Emma refocused on the ongoing conversation.

“Who is?”

“Oh, that new transfer from Ferelden,” she explained. “I saw him yesterday with Meredith. A real knight, if you know what I mean.”

“Pray tell, Aryl,” Dale laughed. “What  _ does _ that mean?”

“Oh, shush,” she giggled. “He’s younger than I thought he’d be. Blond, nice cheekbones — very well put together. The type they would put on a banner if they wanted to recruit more templars. Pretty much Emma, but for the Order.” Aryl’s eyes drifted over her with a mix of admiration and envy, and finished, “ _Great _ arms.”

“How would you know that?” Trick rolled her eyes. “They all look the same in armour.”

“I beg to differ,” Aryl said, pursing her lips. “You just have to pay more attention to them. They carry themselves very differently depending on their build.”

“I think you pay enough attention to the templars for all of us,” Emma commented. “Be careful they don’t start noticing you back.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst if it’s that one,” Aryl shrugged, “I heard that if one of them stakes his claim, the rest respects it. Saves a lot of potential trouble.”

“What are you saying?” Dale asked, “If one of them is going to come into your cell at night, it better be a handsome one?”

“Well,” Aryl scoffed. “Obviously, yes!”

The conversation was cut short by the second gong. Chaos ensued within seconds as the mages got up from their seats and started towards their next destinations. Emma walked with her group towards the eastern exit, which would be the most efficient route towards the library. While the others would continue to their respective schools from there, Emma would head down towards the prison garden instead.

“Amelia!”

A familiar voice called out from behind just as she’d stepped through the door. They turned to see a templar with auburn hair and neatly trimmed beard zigzagging towards them. Emma didn’t need to fake a smile when Ser Thrask halted in front of them — among mages, he was one of the few templars who was generally well received. Tough his expression was friendly today, he had slight bags under his eyes.

“Good morning,” Emma greeted him. “Forgive me, Ser, but you look a bit tired. Are you well?”

“Ah, I just came off the night shift,” the knight confirmed. “Before I turn in, I’ve been asked to escort you to the Templar Hall.”

Aryl let out a low whistle. “Em, you naughty girl... What did you do? It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?”

“Just the first enchanter wanting a word,” Thrask chuckled. “Nothing too exciting, I’m sure.”

“Then I won’t keep you awake longer than necessary, Ser,” Emma said gently. “Please, lead on.”

She nodded her goodbyes to the group, answering Dale’s questioning look with a shrug that meant to say she also didn’t know, and followed the templar in the other direction. The crowd quickly thinned as they headed away from the common areas and towards the templar wing.

“How are your plants coming along?” Thrask asked conversationally.

“Quite well,” Emma replied, and she told him of her recent work. Lately she’d been trying to cross hardier species, like elfroot and mugwort, with more delicate and rare ones. Though her failures heavily outweighed her successes, she had managed some surprising results. Whether they would prove useful was another matter, but at least her efforts showed tangible results that grew and changed on a daily basis. In a world where everything else stayed much the same, it was a welcome distraction.

“I expect the Prophet’s Laurel will be in bloom soon as well, if you want to see,” she continued happily. “It’s been quite challenging, getting it to take root in this climate, but we managed eventually.”

“I’ll request a shift in the garden,” Thrask said gently. “Someday soon, when I am less tired.”

“I do apologise for keeping you up,” Emma offered. “Orsino really should have asked someone else.”

“Well,” Thrask said sheepishly. “I volunteered, actually. It’s no trouble, I assure you. I... thought we should talk.”

He halted to unlock a heavy, wooden door and held it open for her before going through himself. Emma watched him lock it behind them, then followed in his shadow as they crossed through an inner courtyard and headed up a set of steps. The area was usually off-limits to mages. It always made her feel a little uneasy whenever she’d gone there before. Though the presence of Ser Thrask, whose sterling reputation had earned him little goodwill from his knight-commander, would usually mitigate her concerns, there was something in his tone that unsettled her nonetheless.

Thrask glanced behind him, noticing how she’d gone quiet, and sighed. He paused outside the corridor leading to the first enchanter and knight-commander’s offices. “I’ve been... hearing your name coming up more lately.” He regarded her with calm concern, wearing a frown that emphasised the darkness framing his eyes. “I don’t want to scare you, but I thought you should know.”

Little as it was, she knew it was all the knight could feasibly do.  _ Never walk alone_. Such was the advice that any mage in the Circle learned the moment they set foot inside it. Emma, her family name and unique appearance ever painting a target on her back, had learned such rules well. Though she considered herself quite skilled at knowing how to handle individual templars, and which ones to avoid altogether, she was under no illusions regarding the fragility of her position. If the knight felt the need to warn her, someone had been louder than usual.

“Thank you, Ser Thrask,” she said calmly, folding her hands in front of her. “I’ll be careful.”

He nodded slowly, then pushed the door open. Knowing him, he’d probably try to arrange his shifts to match her schedule when he could. Given his sympathetic treatment of mages, however, it was unlikely Meredith would be very cooperative. Nor could he possibly monitor a single mage at every hour of the day, even if she was. Really, Emma was on her own. The same as Nessun when he would be plucked from his bed to face his demon. The same as every other mage to have walked the halls before them.

The first enchanter’s office was one of the larger rooms in the Gallows, mirroring that of the knight-commander on the opposite side of the hall. It was stacked to the ceiling with tomes and scrolls, to the point that the ancient mahogany desk was barely even visible. The mage was standing beside it when Emma entered, bent over a large ledger as thick as a small tree trunk. She smiled as she watched him shake his head at the figures before him. The elf had taken the position somewhere over three years ago when his predecessor died without a successor. By lack of anyone else willing to take on the role, he’d stepped up and done so instead. While he held little true power in Meredith’s Circle, he was a staunch defender of his people, and a listening ear to any who needed it. Under his leadership, the number of suicides and failed Harrowings had gone down noticeably. Though the outside world had supposedly labelled him a menace, he was beloved among the mages.

He looked up when she closed the door behind her, smiling warmly.

“Amelia,” he said, “Thank you for coming.”

“You know I prefer ‘Emma’, First Enchanter.”

Orsino straightened himself up and chuckled, “And you know I prefer ‘Orsino’. Must we do this every time?”

“If you insist on being formal with me, you leave me no choice but to return the favour,” Emma countered. “I still have some manners left in me.”

“And we wouldn’t want to get rid of them,” Orsino said, slightly inclining his head, “We may have some need of them now.”

“Oh?”

Orsino walked around the desk and leaned against the edge, gesturing for her to take the chair in front of it. Emma sat down and waited, carefully watching the changes in his expression as he weighed his words. Orsino and she shared a desire for resolving issues peacefully, opting for reason rather than force in improving their situation where they could. That, as well as the weight her noble name still carried, were reasons he occasionally turned to her for assistance. Usually, they were small things — helping to negotiate more courtyard time, arranging trips for supplies, mediating minor incidents. Involving her allowed Orsino to take a stand against Meredith when needed, while she always remained the neutral party. It made it so that, on a good day, the Knight-Commander could be quite amenable to her requests.

Today, however, his request seemed far from small. Orsino had crossed his arms and repeatedly stroked his chin between thumb and forefinger. His silence continuing, Emma shifted in her seat. Outside, the sky began to darken. Part of her mind was still on Thrask’s warning, another on her plants standing exposed outside. Whatever it was that had the elf ponder for so long, the delay only added to the uneasiness this morning had brought thus far.

“Are you taking any combat classes at the moment, my dear?” Orsino asked.

Emma blinked. Though he’d suggested she improve her casting before, she’d made it very clear she wasn’t going to. She shook her head.

“I see,” he murmured. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Yes... for the moment, it’s probably better.”

“Is it? I thought you wanted me to train more.”

“Because I don’t want you to limit yourself for no good reason,” he said calmly, “It is not good for a mage to fear their own power.”

“Wielding it for creation over destruction is not the same as fearing it.”

Orsino exhaled deeply, then nodded. “Either way, it will work in our favour for the moment. Have you heard of this templar being transferred from Ferelden?”

“The one who was at Kinloch Hold? Yes, of course.”

The mystery templar had not only been on Aryl’s lips the past weeks. While a transfer was not usually such a source for commotion, it wasn’t every day they welcomed the sole survivor of an insurrection. Although some in their Circle had celebrated the actions of those maleficar, Emma had quietly cursed them for it. Much smaller incidents in Kirkwall were enough to tighten Meredith’s grip for days, if not weeks. It hadn’t been surprising when, the months following the news, the knight-commander had been far more insufferable than before.

“He’s been here for some time now,” Orsino continued, “Meredith has taken an unusual interest in him. Supposedly, given his experience, she considers him as one of the few here who truly understands the dangers of magic.” The elf shook his head. “This morning, she announced that she will promote him to knight-captain, making him her second.”

Though the gossip around him had been rather wild, making it hard to distinguish fact from fiction, she had understood the Fereldan templar was rather young. That and the fact that he’d only been in Kirkwall for a few weeks made such a promotion highly unusual. Orsino must have read her thoughts, for he nodded understandingly.

“I have met him,” he answered her unspoken question. “He was courteous enough, though he is undoubtedly affected by what happened. If Meredith continues to fuel the worst in him, I worry for the consequences.”

“I understand,” Emma said, “but... what would you have me do? Besides warning the others —”

“I suggested that he works with you, as _my_ second. Naturally, you can escalate any issues to me, but I would like you to be his first point of contact.”

Emma stared at him. Though she’d taken on some duties in managing the day-to-day, it was hardly anything that could count as an official position. “Surely one of the senior enchanters would be more suitable —”

“You can be very persuasive, Emma,” Orsino continued. Though his expression was still friendly, it was also completely serious. “Your duties won’t increase much beyond what you already do. You’d report to him weekly, update him on the goings-on. I only want you to extend him the same courtesy you show other templars, lead by example and show him why the mages here do not deserve to be treated like animals.”

Emma let the ramifications of the request play out in her head. An unknown templar, one scarred by the actions of mages, was hardly what she’d been wanting to add to her life. Though at other times she’d prided herself in the trust Orsino placed in her, she thought it quite misplaced in this situation. Still, there was some merit to his plan, if not to influence the templar for the better, then at least to keep a close eye on Meredith through her second in command. On the other hand, her associating with a knight-captain, however superficially, would not go unnoticed either.

“I would, Orsino,” she said carefully. “The thing is, Thrask informed me I have drawn some... attention. I think I should keep a low profile for a while.”

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” Orsino sighed, his expression quickly darkening. “You seem to draw attention regardless, dear, whether you keep a low profile or not.” Sharp creases lined his forehead as he contemplated the situation. “I will look into it,” he said eventually. "Meredith is cold, but she doesn't tolerate transgressions. Meanwhile, this could work in our favour. Whoever has been talking of you in the barracks, we can at least be certain it is not him. He, after all, has never met you. If anything, being seen to work with him may offer you some protection. If you feel unsafe or in any way come to the conclusion this is pointless, I promise we will revisit the matter. But I implore you to try.”

Emma took a deep breath, calming her nerves. Checking in with the knight-captain once or twice a week would not take too much time away from her work, and she supposed the things she might learn could be quite invaluable. She nodded. Orsino leaned back with a sigh and looked at her fondly, much like he’d done as she managed her first healing spell, passed her exams with flying colours, or had woken from her Harrowing. Since coming to the Circle, he’d been more than just a mentor. Though she appreciated that he gave her the choice, they both knew it wasn’t like she’d ever decline his requests.

“Let’s go meet them then,” he said, getting up. “I am curious what you’ll make of him.”

“From what I hear, I should swoon to the ground fanning myself,” Emma quipped, following him out of the office and across the hall. “Great arms, apparently.”

“I don’t need to ask whose description that was,” Orsino sighed. “That girl is going to get herself into a world of trouble someday.”

“I think she knows what she’s doing. We all have our own ways of handling them.”

“Hers is a little more literal than I would prefer it to be.”

Orsino paused before Meredith’s door, took a breath, and knocked. The knight-commander’s sharp voice answered a moment later, and Emma followed the first enchanter in. While Orsino’s office looked like the library after a training session in force magic, Meredith’s was clean and organised to the extreme. The desk shone in the torchlight, reflecting the shimmer of her equally polished armour. She sat behind it, leaning back in her chair as she addressed the man standing at attention beside it. They’d stopped talking at the intrusion. While Meredith was looking at them, the knight had taken to observing a point somewhere above their heads instead.

“Meredith,” Orsino greeted her. “I thought Emma should meet the new knight-captain. Like we’ve discussed, she will be reporting to him on the mages’ behalf.”

“A sensible choice,” Meredith said coolly, looking Emma over. “Cullen, this is Amelia. Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford.”

“Welcome to Kirkwall, Knight-Captain Cullen,” Emma offered, lightly curtsying. “I hope you’ve found it to your liking thus far.”

He looked at her. Amber eyes lay in a handsome face, with a strong jaw and sharp chin. Both were emphasised by neatly kept facial hair, slightly darker than his blond head and framing a well-defined mouth. Though he’d come from the South, his complexion was quite sunny, complementing the warm tones of his other features. Emma could see where Aryl’s appreciation for the man had come from, though she soon realised hers would not last long. He only maintained eye contact for a moment before reassuming his previous focus on the wall behind her, his jaw tensing visibly as if he’d just eaten something sour.

“Thank you,” he told the wall. “I have.”

It had been a mere platitude on her part. The Gallows was her home, but it was hardly a welcoming environment. As a place for keeping slaves and breaking their spirits, its purpose had been quite the opposite. Likely, his response was much the same — a meaningless utterance born from the social contracts of making conversation. With the way he continued to stare past her, however, those amber eyes transfixed on anything but the seemingly nauseating view of the mage before him, she couldn’t be so sure.

They left the office after Orsino exchanged a few more words with Meredith, leaving the knight-commander and her captain behind. Emma exhaled a long breath when the door closed behind them, giving Orsino a sidelong glance. “Are you sure about this? I don’t think we’ve exactly hit it off.”

“On the contrary,” Orsino mused, a twinkle in his eye she wasn’t sure how to interpret. “I think this will be rather interesting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew... this was a long one. Sorry 'bout that, Lots of things to set up. Also, my first time writing OC's beside the protagonist. Scary! Thank you for the kudos — nice to feel the support, and super stoked to see some familiar names returning. I've missed you! Stay safe y'all!


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